Who the hell does this Pat Kenneally guy think he is? He goes from being a barkeep at the Jockey Club as well as a recording engineer for local bands, to owning his own goddamn club, the fruitily named "Blackbird." Why is it the overachievers that get all the breaks? The place isn't even open yet and the amazing Chicago jazz-improv band, HIM, is already on the roster. What the fuck?!
You know, it's like Pat wants to be the Mother Teresa of indie rock. He's setting up a splendid, custom-picked sound system, paying the bands really well, and employing, like, every musician in the whole city. On top of that, he plans to have a green room for bands, put in a shower, and give performers a bar tab so they can chow down and drink up after days on the road. Oooh, special treatment! What does my job do for me? They provide me with aspirin for the headaches my fucking demanding co-workers give me!
All goody two-shoes and shit, Pat says, "I've toured before, and I know that $100, a shower, or washing your clothes can be the difference between staying sane and losing your shit." He wants the place to be like a rocker haven--"A club owned by a musician, staffed by musicians, and a congregation point for the music community--a place where people can talk shop, and everyone knows everyone." (No problem in Po'dunk, Pat!)
And of course, Pat hasn't been a slacker on the club decor either. The bar is in the middle of the room, a perfect resting point for weary minglers, and the floor steps up and down a level, giving people various lines of sight--an important quality if you, like me, happen to be a midget. However, he told me that if I intend to become a "career alcoholic," he will kick my ass out onto Blackbird's pristine little sidewalk. Furthermore, he told me that I wouldn't have to be "obliterated" to have a good time at his little club. Wee-he-hell, Mr. Perfect, we'll see about that. The last time I had a good time and I wasn't fucked up was at my cousin's bar mitzvah back in 1982!